1916
by Saphyr88
Summary: A short introduction/prequel to Vienna in Springtime, 1916 follows Magnus and Griffin's experiences of trench warfare at Verdun and the Somme respectively. Rating is for 2nd Chapter.
1. Chapter 1 - The Vermin of Verdun

**Dedicated to all the men and women who endured the horrors of World War I **

**(1914-1918)**

**Verdun, July 5****th**

The sound of gunfire was like rain. It clattered from metal barrels, whistled and pounded heavy shells into the ground. At times it was nothing more than a distant patter in the distance, a rumble indistinct from the thunderstorms of autumn or spring. Then there were the deluges, the insistent and endless storms where they carried on, not knowing how closely they might strike for hours, days on end. Then, there were weeks like these – a summer shower. The brief interlude of bullets arriving almost to their relief, between the dry silences of a scorching day, when the smell of dead rats and sewage, bodies both alive and deceased, reached into even _their_ numbed olfactory systems, and made them want to wretch.

A peppering of hot metal across the parched, potholed landscape ricocheted into the pale bone-filled terrain about them as snipers and patrols took a pop. Lodging in wooden supports and glancing off of helmets. Every now and then the air was punctuated with the sodden thud of it piecing through flesh and the strangled, now familiar, cries of pain which accompanied it. Magnus was to be found never too far off its heels – this time she'd been barely three feet away partaking in what constituted tea hereabouts.

"S'asseoir sur le sol," she ordered, forcing the writhing Private into a position where the blood wouldn't stray too far from his core.

The bleeding was profuse, quickly staining his blue uniform purple, draining him of his already anaemic colour. He shook, grasping for her arm and straining his head as if he couldn't quite say what he wanted to. Magnus wasn't paying much attention, she kept her eye on the task at hand, ripping his uniform down and simultaneously using it to stem the bleeding. It was in his shoulder – if she acted now he might not even need to leave the line.

"Stay still," she continued in French, aware of the men now forming a crowd around him, "What's your name boy?"

He was just a boy too, barely able to grow stubble on his chin, God how many children would they allow into this hell?

"His name's Hector Dubois."

So much for getting her patient's attention, "Hector look at me." The boy's wild icy eyes hit her like frozen water, as he heaved exhausting breaths, "Breathe," she instructed, "it's only a scratch." She smiled, with a taut kind of tenderness which, to Hector, might as well have been that of an angel, "I'm going to take this bullet out, and I promise you, it _will_ hurt."

Another crack of fire rained dirt onto their faces. In this valley he would be lucky indeed not to die of septicaemia, but she had stopped thinking about that months ago. It was all sandbags in a flood, and nothing more, but it was no use dwelling on the fact.

"George," she refused to call the one man who'd been leant to her, to assist in her work, by anything but his Christian name, "keep the pressure."

He stopped measuring Hector's pulse and took the fabric she'd been holding to his wound, allowing her to find the surgical tool from her kit, attached to her side, and the medicinal alcohol to sterilise the wound once she was done. To be honest, it was a minor miracle that she had managed to procure some last time she was in Verdun itself.

With a nod from the doctor, George knew to remove the pressure, allowing her to delve into the bloody mess and retrieve the crumpled remnant of German compound which had ripped up sinew and flesh. Hector squealed in pain, legs flapping like the wings of a wounded pigeon unable to pull itself up and deliver its message; then the string of curses, expletives which could only be got at once the real danger had passed. George was quick to reapply pressure the minute Helen drew away, allowing her to uncap the bottle and apply the liquid against the now clammy skin. The boy yelped and writhed, gritting his teeth and hissing through it as the pain shot through afresh.

"Doctor!" Someone was calling from not too far down the line, but they ignored it, closing and binding Private Dubois's wound quickly, expertly, as they had time after time. "Dr Magnus!" Even knowing this was a command on its way, Helen didn't stir to pay it any attention until her work was done.

"Dr Magnus," the messenger gasped, "I've been told to bring you to the Captain right away."

"Is it an emergency?" George asked on her behalf – ever defensive of the brave Brit he had come to regard as something of a mentor.

"No," he admitted, a little offended at having to address the Private who'd managed to wrangle himself such a sweet place out of the direct line of fire, "but it is an order _Madame_."

Without acknowledging the newcomer Magnus grabbed the wounded man's right hand – on his good arm, and looked him in the eye as she positioned it against the dressing. "Press here," she instructed, "Don't let up."

"I'm sorry Dr Magnus, but you must come with me, _now_."

"The Captain can wait just five more seconds sir," she glared warningly at him, before addressing her patient again, "If it still bleeds you must be sent to the hospital, understand? Don't try to get up yet."

"You heard her Laurent," George stared the messenger in the eye.

"George," it came out harsher than she had meant. She respected his loyalty a great deal, but sometimes that man was far too hot headed, "keep an eye on him. Leave him sat as long as you can, in the shade if you can manage it. If he loses any more blood, or can't grip his gun..."

He nodded grimly, "He goes down the line."

"I'll be back as soon as I can George – keep an eye on them."

"Yes ma'm," he saluted – the only one who ever did, though she held no rank and commanded none of them, not even him.

Private Laurent rolled his eyes at his fellow soldier, but looked to Magnus with every respect, "Come," he ushered softy, as though she were a lady in his Amiens shop trying on hats. She didn't much care for the kid gloves treatment, but it never seemed to relent no matter how much pain she witnessed, no matter the blood still on her hands. It was simply a fact of life.

Face pinched disapprovingly she managed to locate one of her over-used rags, once handkerchiefs, and followed him, wiping the ruby liquid from her skin as they went, before it caked under her nails in the heat. Perhaps Captain Desagneaux would be so kind as to lend her water to wash, though she wasn't sure there was enough of it to go round at the moment.

He must have had a bloody good reason for this. Wounds were a dime a dozen in this section of the line, even with the shell-fire easing off and the men remaining in the trenches. Ever since she had volunteered for this Desagneaux had relied on her to keep his men stood at their posts for as long as humanly possible. He knew better than to drag her from her patient's side before she was done with them, after all this time, surely?

Following Laurent through the trenches she had to mind her step, the soil was loose in part, in others rocks jutted out to trip you – not to mention the legs of men hunkered down to rest, lounging as best they could. Like any officer she passed their hollowed, worn expressions with resignation, trying not to stare as though to witness their shattered bodies was to acknowledge that they'd played some part in its happening, to take on some sense of culpability. Even so, the odd face managed a smile as she passed, and always did. A few cheery hellos from men aged before their time, survivors who owed their lives to her medical training, or George's, which always managed to find them before the stretcher bearers and the Red Cross could haul them back to the make-shift hospitals of the town itself. There were glares too, from men who would've rather died; expressions which haunted her on the edge of sleep.

They reached the officer's dugout and Laurent stood to attention at the door, allowing her to enter. She paused a moment, regarding him, trying to work out the purpose of this and whether or not she wanted to find out. In the end, however, she had little choice but to suck it up and see.

The officers shared a space which had once formed part of a fort – what was left after six months of intense fighting couldn't really be described as a fort anymore. Unlike other sections, it had a stone construction and veritably lofty ceilings, so that even the sous-lieutenant's lanky frame was easily accommodated, though the same could not be said for his bed. The cool inner temperature of the room glanced pleasantly along her skin, which, along with the tinny echoes created here, somehow always reminded Helen of a morgue.

Her heart dropped the moment she saw who Desagneaux was with. The Lieutenant-Colonel stood, still slightly rotund despite the depletion of supplies over the year, his grey-streaked moustache bristling at the sight of her as his suspicions were confirmed and his undesired orders validated. She did not bother to salute. Despite the uniform, her bound breasts and cropped hair it wasn't hard to tell that she was not a soldier, she was not a man, and when she opened her mouth, the worldly gentleman before her would no doubt detect the fact that she was not French either. It was all for show, for appearances… she wasn't fooling anybody. It was quite obvious that she did not belong, and she knew full well that it had only been the support of those who had witnessed her in action that had allowed this to continue for as long as it had.

She pursed her lips, standing ready as though for an attack, her hands still wrapped up in the bloodied rag, itching almost for the reassurance of her gun.

"Alas, I had rather hoped my Commandant to be pulling my leg when he admitted to me that there was a woman among our ranks, field surgeon or no." His dark eyes rolled onto Desagneaux who, stood at ease by his side, was noticeably defeated. The captain was avoiding not only his superior officer's disapproving stare but even Helen's searching gaze – from that alone she knew they meant to take her.

"You're quite welcome Lieutenant-Colonel," she fell back into the bitter, challenging politeness of her mother-tongue.

His eyebrows shot up at her insolent remark, though he could not reply in the same language, "Welcome?! You have some nerve Madame I will give you that, but this farce must come to an end." He turned to his officer, "I will not have my regiment the laughing stock of France for the sake of your, would-be Jean d'Arc Desagneaux."

"Yes sir."

"Gentlemen, I have spent the last _three_ months healing your wounded;" Magnus interrupted matter-of-factly, "believe me when I say I do not mean to stop aiding them now."

"Dr Magnus, we are grateful for your efforts," she held back the huff of disbelief though it was just beneath the surface, "and your assistance with the Operation this spring was by all accounts invaluable, but this is _no place for a lady_."

"_Surely_ I am of greater use to you here," she argued in frustration, "what does it matter who I am or where I came from?"

"Magnus, please," Desagneaux's voice was uncommonly soft, pleading, before shiftily glancing to his commanding officer and back, "I am sorry, but you are to be escorted at once from Verdun, to the head-quarters at Chantilly. From there you will be turned over to _British_ hands."

A flash of anger brought red into Helen's cheeks and fire into her eyes as she wound her way round this invasive obstacle. She couldn't leave. She wouldn't. "You haven't the right! Neither of you have _any_ right I am neither soldier, nor French citizen – I may go wherever I _damn_ well please."

"Dr Magnus you are intelligent enough to know that is not true, whether you are friend or foe. This is a war zone and we could just as easily shoot you as a spy, as take you back to your people."

She took in a deep, angry breath and held his gaze, certain that the Lieutenant-Colonel was merely pointing out the truth; there was no imminent threat in it.

"Luckily for you, Madame, you have friends in exceptionally high places," Magnus' synapses flashed at the phrasing, her mind starting to realise what was really going on, "and your character is not the slightest bit in question."

"You were ordered to find me?"

The older man sighed, hands clasped behind his back, "We were indeed." He replied crisply.

"And have you said anything?"

"You mean admit I had allowed a woman into our lines before ascertaining the truth," he barked a humourless laugh, "do you think me mad?"

"Then why say anything at all sir? Why not allow me-"

"Madame Magnus I do not think you understand, this is non-negotiable – your friends in British High Command _know_ you are here and have specifically requested we find you. Why you are so important I do not know or care, but it is simply a matter of _time_ before your presence becomes known to someone outside of this regiment, and I will not be made a laughing stock, or accessory to whatever political shit-storm that creates. So forgive me if I adhere to my orders as any self-respecting soldier should."

She stood firm in the face of his outburst, knowing that his hands were tied, and just as certain that she knew the reason why. God damn it Watson. She should never have written home, given in to that emotional need for reassurance that they were still there, that London and the Sanctuary were still standing. She remembered now, the last letter he'd sent to her at the make-shift hospital in town. She'd told him she had based herself there, safely behind the line – or what could qualify as safe – which had been true, for a time, but he must have caught it. He must have realised her descriptions of what it was like on the front had been too accurate, too knowledgeable. Hell, she couldn't even be sure that she hadn't written the details in first person, forgetting her own web of half-truths for the simple confidence which would get her through those long weeks of shelling, shooting and gas attacks. God damn him.

He'd implored her to come home ever since news of the fall of Fort Vaux, but that last letter had been heartbreakingly abrupt. It had left her so stunned she hadn't been able to bring herself to reply – well she had plenty to say now. God she was so mad at him. Had he been here this very moment, she could've levelled her pistol at his knee cap and shot it off so he knew what it felt like. She immediately regretted even thinking it, of course, but he had no idea, absolutely _no idea_…

As much as she hated this God-forsaken place where bodies piled up, and men screamed like children in their sleep at carnage more terrible than the Ripper could've conjured – she couldn't abandon them. Not when she could be here, helping them, making a difference. What use was she at home, stuck behind some bloody desk, or in the hospital, playing nurse to some jumped-up doctor because she was a _woman_.

She was _not_ going to show it though. She was not going to throw her napkin like a two year old throwing toys from a pram, she was not going to cry, or scream at the injustice. She had her pride. Despite the degradation of lice infested clothes, and sodden shoes, shitting in buckets and consuming more dirt than food she was still Dr Helen Magnus, and at sixty-five years old she knew when she had been outmanoeuvred. Especially when it was by her closest friend.

"Very well," she managed to concede without losing an ounce of dignity, "if you must do this, I… shall not make a fuss."

"Thank you Dr Magnus," the Lieutenant-Colonel acknowledged with something akin to a sigh of relief, "Desagneaux, the Commandant shall speak with you on this matter shortly. I do hope we shall not see a repeat of its like again."

"No sir," his words were for his officer, automatic and unfeeling, but his eyes were for Magnus, the unspoken bond between them, their shared adversity, imbued in that single look. She said a prayer, in her head, to whatever malign god was up there, that he survive this, that George would too, and the entire battalion… knowing full well, this would be the last time she ever saw them.

"Captain," she spoke up, much to the Lieutenant-Colonel's surprise, "would you give this to George?" she unthreaded her medical kit from her side, to which Desagneaux's eyebrows raised questioningly, "Even if he must remain an infantryman – you know he has the skill to use it."

He nodded, with little enthusiasm, still stunned a little by the swift course of events and the prospect of the firm dressing down he was in for, for the sake of the woman his men had dubbed Beau Britannia. He smirked a little at the thought of the song they had concocted, and when he glanced at Magnus he wished he could've embraced her. Instead his hands brushed hers in the receiving of that gift, and he managed to hum with a smile, "_Pour la beau Britannia traversa son rivage_…"

She smiled at the tune, knowing that his superior officer wouldn't understand, that nobody would, except the men of this company, and she would miss them. She would miss them all, and remember them every day, and by _God_, James was in for it when she saw him again.

**The Battle of Verdun, (21****st**** February – 18****th**** December 1916) was one of the bloodiest battles of the Great War. **

**The French lines held against a German onslaught which aimed to 'bleed France white', and was only partially relieved by the British offensive at the Somme, that July.**

**There were more than 1,000,000 casualties in addition to the**

**362,000 Frenchmen and 336,000 Germans killed in action.**

* * *

_Pour la Beau __Britannia __traversa son __rivage,__  
__et amené à __porter __son bouclier__,  
__et lui __lance__à Marianne__,  
__que le Français__ne peut jamais __céder._

_Et __tandis que son __rugissement des lions __au nord,__  
__comment pouvons-nous __cesser de __coqs __chantent?__  
__Car bien que nous __saigner, __les __saignements de __Hun __plus__,  
__alors que__ B__eau __Britannia __guérit nos blessures._

* * *

**Author's Note:**

This story is taken from that wonderful throw-away line in Episode 3 Season 3: The Bank Job.

"I've operated in the trenches at Verdun. At least here I don't have to deal with the mud and the rats."

Trust Helen Magnus to be involved in the battle of WW1 which saw Charles de Gaulle in action! Ha! But of course, the British weren't engaged at Verdun so how did she end up there? I always suspected that Magnus had gotten involved in some abnormal problem around March/April time, saw what was happening, and decided she had to stay to help the men who had helped her… much to Watson's distress. So ta-dah! Also, no mud in July… it's a hot sunny day, which brings its own problems I assure you.

Also! Can I just point out to all Magnitt fans that comment about the ripper is not intended as a blatant anti-Magnitt dig, it's just I was thinking, you know out of the 3 most traumatic things Helen's known to this point (deaths and disappearances not accepting); the Ripper, Adam Worth and Titanic, only one of those three literally ripped people's bodies into so much meat. Ergo, his legacy is the only one worth comparing to the injuries she's witnessed.

**DISCLAIMERS**:

I do not own Helen Magnus, James Watson or anything else Sanctuary related, though I am a huge fan. This is a work of fanfiction and I am not making any money from it, though if they guys from Sanctuary would like to, I would be honoured! :) The poem/song of the French troops _is_ mine however, as are any mistakes with the French language (Thank you Google translate) – naturally the poem is about Helen Magnus and therefore not an indicator of any kind of historical fact… apart from the lions. That bit's kinda true.

WW1 is a war which is incomprehensible to people such as myself who have never experienced such devastation, nonetheless, I hope I have done some justice without being terribly clichéd to those men who suffered through situations such as this. I offer this story to the memory of all those who witnessed the horror of this war – very few of whom are still with us today as we approach the centenary of its beginnings.

Captain Emile Desagneaux, the only one whose name came from actual historical people, is an entirely fictional character – his name is based on two officers of the French army Captains Henri Desagneaux and Emile Driant. Dubois and Laurent are simply common French surnames.

Next chapter we're heading to Griffin for the British perspective… but there may be a delay in it arriving as I'm trying to finish off _The Iron Sea_.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Snakes of the Somme

**The Somme, late August**

Another few days and they'd have been inching through the mud, Nigel mused as they crawled on their bellies, avoiding giant pot holes of dry, clay soil. There wasn't a star in the sky, and barely a moon to see by – perfect really, for a night patrol, less chance of getting sniped at by the Fritz, or your own.

Lieutenant Appleby paused immediately ahead and Griffin stopped dead, holding his breath at the rustling sounds somewhere to their left; another patrol, no doubt, from the other side. Nigel glowered through the darkness at them, wishing, and not for the first time, that he had Druitt's powers to surprise them with. Funny, what crops up in the mind at times like these – he'd not thought about John for a goodly long while before the crack of war. Now, it seemed, he couldn't quite escape being reminded of the bastard at every turn.

They waited with bated breath, clutching their guns, or in Appleby's case one of the grenades on his side – a fact which Griffin had long since lost all surprise for in this hell hole. To their relief, the whispering trail of bodies across the ground grew distant, and at the Lieutenant's signal they started off again. Private Cooper drew level with him as they reached the German wire, hands steady as it gripped the vicious stuff and cut through. Nigel looked to his commanding officer for his cue, a nod of the head, a hand signalling how many minutes he had. Time to go in.

He stripped off the anonymous boiler suit they'd been given, leaving behind everything, even his weapons, as he slipped into nothingness. His invisibility was nothing new to his platoon, and it seemed forever now since the last rookie to join them had gasped at the sight, bringing down all hell around them. The chill air was not unpleasant against his skin; it helped, in fact, to keep his nerves. A violent urge to stay precisely where he was, flat on the earth, threatened to fix him to the spot, just like it always did. No matter how many times he was called upon to do it, the Sergeant felt like he might vomit every time.

Gritting his teeth, he fought his every life-preserving instinct, and stood up. If it wasn't bloody suicide he'd have stood there, hands on his hips, and laughed – laughed at them all, with the madness of someone beyond all help. It was ridiculous, gut-wrenchingly stupid; that he should be able to stand upright on this treacherous stretch of no-man's land, where men had died in their hundreds, and draw not even one single bullet. God it made him sick to his stomach.

He breathed, as if he hadn't been doing so before, holding it in again as if it might give his position away. Like some bright-eyed Geri would put such small signs together and reach such a startling conclusion.

He had a job to do.

Step by careful step he crossed the last few feet in less time than any man could under fire, like a child investigating the river bank, as he clambered down cautiously into the enemy trench. The sentry was barely three yards away, machine gun waiting, staring out into the sparse landscape with a weary look about him. Either side of where Nigel had come down men were scattered, some sleeping, others on watch and struggling to keep their eyes open. Luckily the trenches they'd built were wider than the British lines, and he could pass their outstretched legs with ease. He was an old hand at creeping about – probably been doing it since before these lads were born, and his practiced step was so quiet it was only ever mistaken for a rat scurrying about for a nocturnal snack.

He'd gone for some time, before they'd recognised his _unique_ talents here on the front. Before they'd been shipped off to France he was just Sergeant Griff, same as any other non-commissioned officer: beholden with the same respect, fear and derision as any of them. Then came the shelling, and the battle, and the returns he'd made into the nightscape to haul back as many of the wounded as he could, when no one else would. The Captain would've threatened him with court martial, had he not died five seconds after they'd entered the German line. A bullet straight between the eyes had tipped him backwards against their entry point, so that Private White had made his bones crack above the gunfire as he followed him in.

The then-lieutenant had been more sympathetic, quizzing him relentlessly on why he'd done it, and how, until he'd finally relented. Now he was set apart from his comrades, held aloft like a mascot, and put to the same old dirty work he always ended up with… not that he didn't get a kick out of it and all, but it had been nearly _thirty years_. Nigel was really regretting ever asking Watson to help him improve his German all those years ago – even if it was to insult Tesla with more variety and prove himself capable of reading more than just a Chemistry book. Speaking of which, would it really have killed the son of a bitch to give them a hand over here? Tesla hadn't even replied to his letter – _and Jesus that was almost two years ago now_.

Griffin paused at the thought, momentarily; time had snuck up on him again.

Of course, he could hardly blame Blount for putting him to it. There wasn't a single battalion on the line which could provide as accurate information as him, alone, in the darkness. To the north and south of them men were throwing bombs haphazardly, fighting off Geris with knuckledusters and grabbing Privates who knew next to nothing, shooting them in the arm and dragging them over no man's land. Or creeping close enough just to overhear sentries complain about the rain, and the rats, and everything else they _all_ had to deal with. Meanwhile Sergeant Griffin, absolutely starkers, could get into officer's bunkers without a shot fired, and occasionally threaten one into taking _himself_ over the top… or else find a blade lodged deep inside his back.

He almost passed them this time. It was so dark he couldn't find the entrance; that was until he'd heard the posh Prussian dialect peeling out of the alcove on his right and a less specific accent making some response.

"…a very special weapon."

Christ, had he just hit jackpot or were they talking about getting seen to by the ladies on leave? Griffin assessed how tight the space was inside, whether they were moving about before making his move.

The other officer snorted in disbelief, "Of course."

"Of course you don't believe me, why would you?" He sounded drunk – not, incapable-of-firing-straight drunk, but certainly the liberal-with-his-words variety.

As he snuck in against the reinforced walls Nigel could see that the Captain was leaning back in his chair, notebook across his lap, sketching in charcoal as the junior officer – still fresh as a daisy – eyed him sceptically. The Captain, in comparison, had the jaded confidence of a career soldier. As if he lived and breathed for the sweat and dust, the bloody terror of battle, and the silence of the last few days had been driving him mad. His blonde hair stuck up on ends, hazel eyes reflecting the dark pinch of a knowing smugness.

"It is from a… very ancient culture," he explained as the younger man sat opposite him, eyes flicking momentarily to his colleague trying to sleep on one of the beds, "older even than Rome. And it's going to end the war."

Nigel got the impression that he wasn't entirely happy about the possibility, either. His voice thickened with an un-Prussian-like inflection he couldn't quite place.

"How exactly?" the scepticism was moderated out of fear for the officer's rank, but candid nonetheless, "It looks like a spear, last I looked into my hist-"

"By controlling. people's. minds," he intoned morosely, cutting him off. The second lieutenant chuffed, but his captain interrupted once again, before he could voice his derision, "Oh no Faber, you should believe it…" he pointed a charcoaled finger at him with a squint, "a friend of mine, from my old university told me _all _about it…" Griffin listened closer, feeling his heartbeat quicken as the Captain lowered his voice against the ears outside their door, "how they plan on using it to end the war… it's curious really," he spat derisively, "apparently it was a _**Jew**_ who figured it all out."

Nigel raised an eyebrow at that – he hadn't heard that much vitriol for a Hebrew since he was traipsing around the East End with Watson, trying to figure out the Ripper case. It seemed the younger officer also shared Griffin's reservations, distaste creeping into his face. Who knew, maybe he even was one! That would be bloody ironic.

"He's having you on!" he sipped out of the chipped cup in his dirtied hands.

"Oh ho, my friend does not joke Faber – terribly _dry_ fellow Neurath, like most statisticians." He smiled bitterly at the memory, eyes cast on his depiction again, "You'll see, in six months' time this war will be all over, the dawn of a new age – and _we_ shall be _obsolete_, left to rot in the gutter."

"Sure, right," the tremble in the Lieutenant's voice was no doubt an echo of the same distant foreboding Nigel had felt at the Captain's sincerity, only Griffin had the misfortune of _knowing_ as a fact that crazier things had happened. "Even if _that_ could control our minds, how do they expect to control the minds of _all_ of our enemies? They fight us from one end of Europe to the other!"

The elder officer barked a laugh, "There are more things between Heaven and Earth."

Realising what he'd said, Griffin felt a shiver at the all-too-familiar misquotation. A corrupted Shakespearean passage which Gregory had always been fond of breaking out on occasions such as this, particularly when there was some young buck like, say, HG Wells thoughtlessly stumbling into what was now the Sanctuary. It had, until this moment, always resonated positively with Nigel, but to hear it from this snake's mouth, in this place, was ominous to say the least.

Eying his comrade conspiratorially, the Captain continued to elaborate for his ensnared audience of one, "They say that the kings in possession of _this_ artefact stayed young on the blood of men," his eyes glimmered with a mixture of hate and awe, and lust for power, "their talons cut like rapiers, and their armies could wander the Black Forest in the dead of night without encumbrance. Can you imagine? An enemy who could survive the most heinous wounds, heal them, in moments? A Tommy that could get back up once you'd put a bullet in his lung, and savage you like a dog whilst all your friends tried to put him down?"

Every one of Griffin's muscle tensed, his stomach turning to water – reminded of Nikola's final violent outburst after Helen's test medication hadn't quite gone as planned. Sanguine Vampiris. He was definitely alluding to the vampires… and so far he hadn't gotten a thing wrong. This was bad... very bad.

"Sounds like they would've put old Dracula to shame, no?" the younger officer laughed.

The Captain grumbled sulkily, sinking into the alcohol more fully than before so that all he could manage was a simple shrug of his shoulders. "Believe what you will, but I'd shoot that man if I could, that Jew… nothing, no one, should have that kind of power, not even if it gets us out of this rotting cesspit calling itself a war…"

The sentiment did little to comfort Griffin, especially as the Captain's ear pricked at the sudden commotion raised outside. Shit, here come the cavalry, thought Nigel – wondering how it had already gotten to ten minutes.

"Sir! Sir!" a private barged in and Nigel just had time to work out where he might stand without causing a physical barrier, "A patrol."

The two officers glanced at each other and stood in a swift, communal movement, grabbing for their hats and weapons, doing up their uniform buttons as they did so, before hurrying out to the disturbance. The drawing paper was left on the table, abandoned, the sketch lain on top. Nigel grabbed it, scrunching it up so it was hidden in his hand, before hurriedly searching the beds and packs for diaries and letters yet to be censored. Outside he could hear gunfire and shouts, in German and English, bombs and grenades, and the mechanical clack, clack, clack of machine gun fire. He'd be heading back through the flames alright.

Shoving the precious documents into a bag, or some fabric he soon turned into such, he ducked out into the fray. They were so caught up in the fight, that it was a while before he heard the shocked gasp of some Geri Private, as he noticed the floating bag.

"Hey, Wilheim…"

Nigel span around, seeing the guy who looked about ready to piss himself, whilst his companion's eyes bulged in realisation.

"What the hell is tha-"

"Ghost?!"

Chuckling Nigel dropped the bag for a moment and grabbed both their heads, smacking their helmets together so hard their vision blurred. "Boo!" he teased, reclaiming his booty with an impish grin, before high-tailing it and overtaking his retreating colleagues at a full blown run. The air flooded his lungs, feet threading their way across uneven soil, all the while praying he didn't impale them on the twisted remains of shells, or slide over a dud. A flare shot out in an attempt to catch his brothers at arms and Nigel threw himself into a shell hole, protecting himself from the inevitable rounds fired off.

He stayed there, pressed down by the bullets like he had been on the first attack, only this time he had no helmet, no rifle, no shoes. A cry from the distance he had already run across rang out against the quietened guns, followed by the sharp snipe of a German rifle silencing the groans of pain. Another man lost. Griffin found he didn't have it in him to be sorry anymore. It was simply a matter of fact.

Eventually he decided they'd given up taking pot-shots at the dead, and shimmied his way out of the hole. It wasn't pleasant, the earth scraping and scratching the most inconvenient of places, but with the bag in tow, and the Boche on alert, he wasn't quite as invisible as he would have liked. He was almost there, at the wire, when a bullet whistled past his rear end and managed to graze him.

"Bloody hell!" he wheezed, grappling over the edge of the trench and letting himself fall heavily.

His fellow Tommies parted ways at the sound, trying to work out where their invisible friend had landed. The odd pattern of mud and blood was the only sign – the bag having rolled onto the feet of Lieutenant Appleby himself.

Griffin rubbed a hand over his bum before he could even remember that with what he probably had on his hands Magnus would've been screaming at him not to infect the wound. "Jesus, bloody, fucking-" he hissed.

"Quite done Sergeant?"

Nigel managed to bite his lip as he hopped on the spot, trying to find a way to rest which didn't involve sitting. He growled in pain, waiting for the officer to throw a rug in the direction of his voice before allowing himself back into the visible spectrum.

"Just about sir."

There was a relieved laugh from the entire section, the Privates looking on with a pride and admiration Nigel didn't really feel he deserved, but enjoyed nonetheless. It was some reparation, at least, for the occasional bullet scrape and running around naked in the cold.

"Bit close though - think the Boche got round my rear."

Another round of chuckles and guffaws filled the whole place with a momentary upward feeling. As if they were just enjoying a night in the pub on the corner, and not stuck in some God-forsaken field on the edge of France.

"You watch out Serge, I heard they got a likin' for all that buggery!"

They laughed, and Nigel joined them, lying in the dirt and dreaming of the nurse that almost certainly _wasn't_ going to be putting her delicate hands on his backside to stitch him up.

"Good job, Griffin," Appleby actually sounded impressed as he rifled through the luggage, though Nigel realised, he was still carrying the drawing scrunched up in his hand, "Private Lawrence-"

"Yes sir?"

"Help him up man; we can get him fixed in the dugout."

Boy was he looking forward to the two or three hours of restless shut-eye coming his way.

_**Two weeks later…**_

Of course he had told Captain Mayhew almost as soon as the officers were alone together, about the severity of what he had heard… omitting a few key facts of course. They trusted him, however, and couldn't deny the very real possibility of Griffin's concerns becoming reality, so they had notified the authorities of the encounter, urging them to seek assistance from the Sanctuary in London. He'd shown them the sketch too, to convince them, but thought it best not to let it get sent off with the rest of the papers, and slipped it into his own things just before the intelligence package was sent. Like he was going to let some idiot general decide how important that was, oh no, he wanted Watson and Magnus to see this before it got buried in some bureaucratic crypt.

So when Mayhew asked him, quite pointedly, to take a seat that evening he half wondered whether the game was up. The man did, after all, have a letter in his hand and a weary, hollow look about his eyes.

"Rum, Griffin?" he asked, plucking out the bottle and twisting off the cap to offer a measure.

Still beholding his commanding officer with suspicion Nigel gave a brief nod in acceptance, and received a draught.

"What's this all about Captain?"

He was starting to worry him, the depressed set of Mayhew's shoulders, the slouch. "I'm rather sorry old man," his murky gaze held, "we'll be losing you shortly –" Nigel held his nerve and didn't flinch, though he feared the worst, and his jowl hardened with it, "to an intelligence division."

His surprise was evident, as was the sudden pang of sadness at being taken away, "Oh. I see…" did he dare to hope, perhaps… "it's that weapon, isn't it?"

The Captain nodded, watching his friend and colleague with sympathy, and more than a little regret.

"Well," Griffin sighed in resignation – he wasn't one to pretend that he could change things which were clearly out of his hands. Acceptance was his forte. "At least they're taking my instincts seriously."

As he sipped his drink he missed Mayhew's flash of disbelief, "No, they're taking your _abilities_ seriously."

Nigel's head snapped back, mind whirring, realising that they had told them everything they knew. He fought against the feeling of betrayal but it was still there.

"I'm sorry Griff but what choice did I have? How else do I explain just how much they should take heed of your instincts unless I impress upon them just how different, special, you _are_? Look I don't blame you for hating me-"

"I never said I did," He interrupted, taking another draught of the alcohol and working out what he might expect in the lion's den. God, it was exactly what he had feared when he'd signed up.

"I reckon they've suspected for some time Sergeant…" Nigel paused and tried not to look at him, "your name seems to have rung a few bells, in the heads of some rather high-up bods."

He eyed his Captain with more coldness than he ever had, the cynical jade of rather too many years in and out of trouble finally making his appearance from behind the façade. There was a story there, several in fact, and all rather long.

Certainly none he wanted to share with the man who had – through no fault of his own – effectively sold him out. Oh Magnus was always trying to make him stop thinking of the government as the enemy, but he couldn't, he just couldn't. Maybe he was a communist after all, but the day he stopped questioning the motives of the great and not-so-good was the day he became an empty shell.

In the meantime, here he was, about to become their agent: a patsy to their madness, and the most dangerous of his gut-feelings just would not relent in repeating the German Captain's words in his head…

"…this war will be over, the dawn of a new age – and _we_ shall be _obsolete_…"

**The Battle of the Somme, (1****st**** July – 18****th**** November 1916) was, on its first day, the worst day in British Military history.**

**A joint allied offensive of French and British troops, the aim was to relieve the French at Verdun and make substantial gains from the Germans which would force them out of France. In the end, the Germans withdrew to the Hindenberg Line – an even more heavily fortified position 40 miles to the east.**

**On the first day alone more than 19,000 British soldiers were killed in action.**

**Over the four months there were more than 1,000,000 casualties,**

**146,431 allied soldiers,** **and 164,055** **Germans lost their lives.**

* * *

**Author's Note**: The only thing I wanted to say is that I really think the reason Clara and her mother lived in fear is because Griffin's skills were noticed by the espionage community and intermittently in his life, he was sought out and dragged into using those skills – running was the only way his daughter could escape that life for herself, whereas Griffin had never run away from it per se, but played the game. Just my two cents anyway. :)

So what is this mysterious weapon?! Care to find out? Follow **_Vienna in Springtime_**, coming soon!


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